This past weekend, we packed up the Outlander and headed northeast to King’s Lynn for a little camping excursion. The first one of the season. I know it’s late, but heck with the earlier weather not being the best and then vacation time in Fuerteventura, well the days and weeks fly by and before you know it’s mid-July before you’re pitching tent for the first time in 2018. Looks like we caught the last of the dry, hot weather too, so good deal all around.

King’s Lynn is a seaport and market town in Norfolk, England. At 102 miles, it’s the nearest beach to us (actually the beach we went to was about 30 miles north of our campsite in Hunstanton. It was fabulous grabbing so much fresh air over the weekend, and two nights of open fire – bonus!

 

On the beach, I crafted these two poems:

profit

instead of profit,
music is the bottom line

dance floor constructed

sexual

mind-altering
experience to create
a language of desire

the break from real
sold to us through
escape

the environment
where physical connection
seemingly encouraged
emotional engagement

suppressed.

 

 

the composition of style

sexual energy
makes less than
what it seems

body becomes object
the desire within,
a chance to touch
the forbidden

day breaks
the magic ends

keeps coming back
keeps pouring in

gay or straight flyers
advertising the event
energy, sex, or otherwise

the composition of
the style of

the streets of New York City

I got in line came
face to face with attractive
young women bundled against
the cold in stylish pleasant
conversation, sensually dressed
heroin-chic, collecting £15 for
privileged entry.

I entered the chapel
headed for the bar
too early for the truth

at the bar, I found
the congregation
of the beautiful

demarcating
truth from beauty

 

can be yourself
don’t bottle up the body,

keep it open.

when all self-identifications remain
get rid of

god.

no self-definition, i am
energy and bring nothing
reality here, can i

demand nothing when you
want nothing, seek nothing
expect nothing

unexpected!

a man engrossed
prescribed by his scriptures
will get wrapped up in them

so many saints
words may be true
independent of ripening time

stay open and quiet
you seek no place
know that

don’t burden yourself
names seeking ends
desire for truth, this is
your profit

seeking at

so i lay there
playing with splinters
in the late red afternoon

the angels of paradise
hidden in the mystery
of my days leaning
on warm wings sang to me

sticks lie broken
dead leaves gather dust
i am homesick here
in the ashes

all i wanted was
glory found only
strange sadness instead

on a pristine
october afternoon
i applied for a job
begging at the ports

all for the sake
of feeling my way
against the ghost
of your truth

my lies limed
and loaded flowed
easy riding the night’s
last flicker of hope

i was young
i tried to capture
you with rhymes
and exotic suggestions

touching myself
pretending to be
a poet of all things

you were a tourist
picking through
the constellations
looking for something
behind my falling words

you found nothing but
a boy from jazz highway
rustling night’s leaves

Best experienced through headphones…

ant-people, something has happened that’s made me question the nature of my reality, a thread to follow…

the point of intersection between the human mind and suppression. i don’t think you will ever see me again. i achieved what i was incapable of.

the time wave,
i sent it.

the strong rule the weak and the clever rule the strong. the distribution of our current system is the deadly bank account. there is a dangerous underground operating in telepathic space.

dangerous adventurers who plan to outthink and displace the static fragmentation of our united class society, everyone living lives as a member of a particular class thinking every kind of thought without exception, stamped with the brand of class rubbing elbows and getting jostled in by the crowd.

in the moment she answered
formless in-between states of grief
shadows dancing underneath her eyes
she did not recognise me

darkness
dull and desperate
before the beginning
began

i caught myself staring like a
chimp caught humping another
chimp, never would i be better

imitating the ways of the master not to
create but to destroy the beat of her heart

and then it made sense to me
i stood witlessly fumbling the
key to endless happiness she
sat on the bed with her hands
clenched, ‘i will help you hold
the hatred, spread it over the
fields black and foul and what
will you do for me?’ i will give
you another life layered in gauze
and honey, burning in teargas
i will save you from the vapour
and dust of sad dreams

i was in the desert once
lost in meditation
i was trying to get to
grips with being a
plaything for the gods

i met some souls sitting
around a fire in the open night
they were contemplating
Good and Evil
Lust and Sorrow

all of my incantations
and prayers ignored
by the old gods, i consigned
myself to the enigma of the
meek and their gospel of love

until i stumbled upon a
switch labeled universe
next to a button marked
“Boom”

in a moment of weakness
i pressed the button